


Heroism

by nonnie325 (orphan_account)



Category: Angst - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Self Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nonnie325
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John can’t save a girl who came into the hospital after a suicide attempt, some painful memories come flooding back to him and all he wants to do is drink them away.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroism

**Author's Note:**

> [[Mentions of suicide and self-harm so be aware]]

When John Watson arrived home from work on the evening of June 1st, the atmosphere in the entire apartment building sank with his presence. Sherlock didn't move from his stretched out position on the couch even as heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs and the door was wrenched open then slammed back again. John didn't say a word as he stalked into the kitchen, head down and shoulders hunched. Sherlock heard a loud clink as a glass was removed carelessly from the cupboard, then dropped down onto the counter. Silence followed for a long moment in which he figured John was draining his glass of whatever he had poured (whiskey, most likely), then Sherlock heard John sigh and fill his glass once more.

Sherlock fastened his eyes to the television again when John shuffled into the room and didn’t look over as he sat down. John took a deep breath, an even deeper drink of his whiskey and tried his best to melt into the furniture. 

"Something happened at work,” Sherlock said. John didn’t look up when he answered.

“Brilliant deduction,” he said dryly. “However did you come to that conclusion?”

“Oh stop it,” Sherlock spat out. “Why are you moping about?” For someone who was regularly a smartass to his roommate, he couldn’t stand to have the tables turned. He also couldn’t stand moping. John was silent except for a soft sigh accompanied by another drink and a shake of his head.

“A girl died in my care tonight.”

The air changed. Sherlock’s gaze came back into focus and he glanced up at the doctor, edging him on, waiting for more information.

“She was thirteen. Suicide. She bled out through her wrists.”

It was silent again for a long moment and Sherlock got lost in his thoughts. He didn’t fully understand. Sure, it wasn’t any surprise to him that John felt sadness over this patient, but he had seen many suicides before, from various types of people, and he had never come home dragging such a dark cloud behind him from any of those before.

“Shame,” he whispered finally, and added, “do they know why she did what she did?”

John hummed around the glass that had made its way to his lips again. “Ehh,” he said, shaking his head again, “she..she came from a bad home, the parents weren’t even—they didn’t bring her in, another girl did. I had a conversation with her and from what I gathered there was a lot of bullying going on, some despicable things spread about her. She said some people had been telling her she was better off just killing herself, and….” He didn’t finish the sentence but Sherlock understood.Still, he didn’t understand what about this case made John seem so... deflated. He raised himself into a sitting position and faced John, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not that a thirteen year old committing suicide isn’t horrible,” he started, ignoring John’s eye roll, “but why are you..” he gestured toward John with his hands, trying to articulate what he meant without sounding crass. He doubted John wanted to hear “ _why are you acting so silly and depressed over some girl you didn’t even know?_ ” right now. John seemed to know what Sherlock was on about though. He cleared his throat but didn’t answer. He retreated back into the kitchen and when he came back he had the entire whiskey bottle and his glass was full again. He drank it all in one go then started in on other, but Sherlock was getting impatient. He snatched the glass away before John had a chance to pour anything in.

“Hey, what—“

“I’ll give it back when you answer me,” Sherlock said. John set his jaw and a stare down ensued. He lost.

“Alright, _alright,_ I’ll tell you, just—“ he grabbed for the glass and pulled it out of Sherlock’s hand, “I need alcohol for this, okay?” Sherlock nodded once, then leaned back into the couch cushions, and listened.

“I knew a girl, back in secondary school, who was...she was just different. Very quiet, she hardly ever spoke, always had her nose buried in some strange fantasy books. She was singled out for this – I’m sure you know how cruel kids can be.” At this, Sherlock huffed, something between a laugh and a scoff. Of course he knew; he’d been on the receiving end for most of his life.

“I hadn’t thought about this until just today, but…I remember quite vividly, one day a group of boys and one of the most popular girls in school had her cornered, and oh Sherlock, the things they were saying to her, such terrible things. “’Just kill yourself, people would be so much happier.’” He stopped there and poured himself another glass of whiskey and downed that one in one go as well. He sucked in a breath as it went down. He didn’t care for how it burned but he was grateful for the numbing feeling that was taking over his brain, the one that allowed him to talk a bit easier. “I was standing just round the corner; they couldn’t see me. They—they didn’t hurt her, not physically. They just tormented her with all these words, and then left. I don’t even think she cried. They had knocked her books down – she just picked them back up and left. I’ve never – forgiven myself, for not helping, or saying something or just…but they were all so much bigger than me. The next day I told myself I’d go to her and say hello and just see how she was doing, but the next day came, and—“

“And she didn’t show up,” Sherlock finished. John’s breath hitched and he suddenly felt very lightheaded. He sipped.

“No,” he muttered, “she didn’t.”

“How long did it take for everyone to find out she’d killed herself?” Sherlock asked.

“A few days. I knew right away, though. I guess I’d suppressed it, at least mostly, but I saw that girl come in today and it was like the floodgates opened.” John was tipsy now, his emotions overriding his ability to control his mouth. “I couldn’t save that girl in my hospital--it was too late. Just like I was too late for Annabell.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows ticked up at the mention of a name. His mind raced. He thought about John in secondary school, listening over the intercom while the principle told the entire school about this girl, this Annabell, this someone he didn’t even really know, was gone. He tried to imagine what John had felt then. Guilt? Definitely. Grief? Most likely. Sorrow? A given. He was so lost in his thoughts that when John nudged his foot he jumped a bit.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said, and he was. John had a massive hero complex--it was in his nature to want to save everyone. It was one of his greatest traits and most beautiful flaws. “But it isn’t your fault those girls did what they did. You can’t hold on to things like that; you’ll drive yourself mad.” Of course, Sherlock was an expert at this. He was mad himself, after all. At least, that was all he’d been told in the entirety of his life. John’s mouth crooked up into a very sad smile and he gazed into the bottom of the empty glass, burning holes in it, like it held the answers to all the questions in the universe. Finally, he placed the glass back onto the table and stood. Sherlock’s eyes followed him and his movements as he rubbed his face and took a few deep breaths before announcing he was signing off for the night.

Sherlock nodded again, but said nothing. He settled back into his stretched out position and prepared himself for a long night of scrambled thought but just as he had settled in and closed his eyes, they opened again at the sound of John’s voice from across the room.

“Thank you for listening, Sherlock,” he murmured. Sherlock didn’t know if he meant it to be heard or not, but he didn’t have time to reply before John disappeared up the stairs.

Sherlock would never know it, but that night after John had showered, changed, and climbed into bed, he cried himself to sleep. Big, heaving sobs to accompany the movie playing over and over again in his head, highlighting the past—his past. The past that could never be changed, and the people who could never be saved.  


End file.
